Page 10 of Hooked On Victor
“I read your entire file,” she replied coolly, brushing hair back behind one ear with a latex-gloved finger. “Once we realized you didn’t carry ID. ‘Roman’ was all we had. Now it’s just your nickname until you decide to tell us the truth.”
He felt something cold flicker in his gut.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed it—the way his breathing stuttered for half a second, the slight recoil of his shoulders against the stiff hospital pillow. But she caught it. Her eyes sharpened fractionally.
He leaned back, exhaling carefully so as not to aggravate his ribs.
He studied her. Really studied her.
Most people cracked under this look—his eyes locked on theirs, unblinking, dissecting them with slow deliberation. He watched for the twitch of nerves, the small shift of the feet, the swallow, the way pupils darted for an exit.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t look away.
She just waited, arms folded, weight evenly balanced on both feet.
She wasn’t afraid of him.
He didn’t know yet if that made her stupid, or the most interesting person he’d met in years.
He felt something old, something he thought had fossilized in him a long time ago, twitch in his chest.
Not the pain.
Something worse.
She turned, finally, checking the monitor again, pressing one button to silence its too-loud beep. The movement sent her braid shifting over her shoulder, the red catching the light in shades that reminded him of blood drying in the sun.
Victor wet his lips, the copper taste stubborn on his tongue.
“You saved my life,” he said softly.
It wasn’t gratitude exactly. It was something rawer. Recognition.
She paused with her finger on the monitor.
She didn’t turn back to him immediately.
He watched her shoulders tighten slightly under the loose fabric of the scrubs.
Finally she spoke.
“I know,” she said. Her voice was flat, controlled. Then softer, under her breath but not soft. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Victor stared at the side of her face.
He couldn’t see her eyes, but he didn’t need to.
He could hear it in her voice.
Not fear.
Warning.
And in that sterile white room with its spiderweb cracks in the ceiling, the stink of antiseptic mixing with artificial lavender, and the steady beeping of the monitor that told him he was, impossibly, still alive—Victor Roman let himself sink back into the pillow.
The pain didn’t leave.
